By Henry Nwokolo (EMAIL)
Wednesday, March 28, 2001

[ [
I I
M M [IMAGE]ike a lot of my essays of late, I find myself increasingly
A A drifting towards the exclamations or lingua of my parents to buttress
G G arguments. This essay is no different. My mother uses the title of
E E this essay every time she wanted to describe the stress of Nigeria.
] ] 'Oke Obodo' is therefore an exclamation; it is an Igbo phrase coined
to emphasize the intricate complexities of a county; in this case
Nigeria.

Bearing that in mind, and after 3 years, two months, two weeks and
two days away from Nigeria, I retuned to 'Oke Obodo,' the nation of
my birth for a brief visit. This essay chronicles my experiences.

Just Before Nigeria:

Place: Heathrow Airport, terminal 3.

"British Airways flight 234, operated by Nigerian Airways, is now
ready for boarding. Please, please, please, only people with small
children and elderly persons should begin boarding at this time." I
have become very conscious of language used by persons when
addressing me especially since I live in a place filled where racist
connotations are easily implied. So when the announcer used the word
'please' three times to drive home her point, I found it rather
upsetting as she implied that I, and others were incapable of
following instructions. However, before I could digest the content of
her announcement fully, I experienced the reasons why the lady had
pleaded desperately for orderliness.

No sooner had the microphone gone silent did a mad stampede erupt. I
swear, I saw this fifty-something year old man scale two benches
while dashing for the gate. I saw women flattened out on the reddish
carpet enjoying a meal of Amala and Gbegiri, stop, and dash for the
gates while licking their fingers. The speed displayed by Nigerians
that faithful day raised my optimism that Nigeria was in good shape
for a gold medal in the next Olympics. For some reason, the boarding
passes they clutched in their hands meant nothing to them.

But for me, the mad rush to the plane was the first clue that I was
very nearing home.

The flight was, well, non-eventful except that I almost urinated in
my seat when a visibly upset airhostess (sorry Air attendant: must be
politically correct) lied that she had run out of all kinds of wines
when the person sitting next to me requested for a bottle. I did not
blame her. Right beneath the gentleman's sit was a nice looking bag
where he casually deposited unopened bottles of wine served him. On
my last count he had inserted twenty-one bottles into the bag.

The heat at the Murtala Mohammed Airport was unbearable! At the
conveyor belts to get my luggage, I realized that it would have been
easier for me to go to the belly of the plane and retrieve my luggage
than waiting for the conveyor carrier to do so. With every tiny move
the belts that rotated the conveyor cranked, letting out this
irritating sound.

Impatient, hot, and becoming extremely needy of fresh air, I suddenly
smelt tobacco. To my right was this bulky white man puffing away on
his cigarette and a uniformed custom officer standing next to him.
Behind him was a "No Smoking sign". Unable to take the inconvenience
of the smoke any longer, I walked over to the custom officer and
asked him very politely to instruct the man smoking to put out his
cigarette since it was rather inconveniencing to a lot of people.

"Leave am jo make him smoke" he backed at me. I took a step away from
the ignorant officer and directed my attention at the smoking man. I
brought the "No Smoking sign" to his attention and appealed to him to
quench his cigarette since I was having problems breathing. The man
must have been to Nigeria several times before because he looked me
over (you know, the way a Yoruba woman would look you over before she
starts raining abuses on your entire family) and turned away.
Instinctively I grabbed the cigarette from his lips, threw it to the
floor, extinguishing it with my boots. I added the following words
"if you light up another one, I will put my foot up your ass,
mother???" I heard the Custom man say something like; "ware ni omoyi
oh."

I paid his ignorant comment no mind because I was so furious at the
audacity of this white man to flout Nigerian laws and yet act so prim
and proper. I was perhaps most angry about the fact that if the
situation was reversed and I was blind, I would have been thrown in
jail even though I couldn't read the "No smoking sign" in his
country.

The rest of the procedure went relatively well since I screamed at
the white man. While other people were opening their suitcases for
inspection, the custom officers waved me on. Their only comment was:

"Oga if you get something for us just give us and go."

And since I did not have them in mind while I was doing my shopping,
I went my way.

Outside, I met my brother and a cousin with two cars.

"I no carry the whole America come oh" I exclaimed as we hugged. They
ignored my comment and secured my luggage into my brother's car. As
we drove off, I noticed he was not even looking ahead but had his
eyes permanently on the rearview mirror. Suddenly, in the middle of
the expressway he did a 360-degree turn heading back towards the
airport. My cousin was speeding in the opposite direction. A minute
later my brother put the car in another 360-degree turn and began
entering streets he had no business going into. A trip that would
ordinarily take us twenty-five minutes took us forty minutes because
he was making sure no one was following us. Initially I thought they
were being naïve until the next morning when I heard of a friend's
wife that got attacked coming back from the airport with her
one-month-old baby. James Bond couldn't have done any better!

Day Two.

I had bought a wristwatch for my kid sister, which for the life of me
I couldn't find in my suitcase. I was so angry that I cursed myself
for leaving it behind. But a few minutes later, I began searching for
the things I got for my mum and again, I couldn't find them. I took
back the curses I had rained on myself and redirected them towards
the rouges that had carefully broken into my suitcase. My mother kept
saying "at least you arrived safely ? that is all that matters, leave
those material things alone." I wasn't satisfied until I had cursed
the entire family of those that violated my suitcases.

Nigeria hot oh! I thought I should visit a few friends and deliver
errands that where sent though me.

"You can't drive in Lagos anymore" one of my brothers said. The other
brother agreed and my sisters joined in. Stupid people! Three years
away and they want to tell me that I can't drive in the very city I
was raised in. Angry and bitter that they thought me an "aje-butter,"
I jumped behind the wheel and drove towards the Island. As I passed
Falomo Church, I made the sign of the cross and begged God to grant
me the favor of reaching my friend's abode in Victoria Island. I
promised him that I would not drive again for the duration of my stay
if he granted me this wish. (He obliged me.) The second I reached my
destination I put shame aside and called my brother, begging him to
send his driver.

I couldn't believe that I was in Victoria Island. The used to be
orderly Victoria Island has turned into an expensive ghetto. The
brilliant looking homes and offices catered only to the egos of those
inside these buildings. In Victoria Island, I realized why NEPA
should be spared from so much criticism. How can they handle the
expansion of Victoria Island without modernizing their
infrastructure? The residential Victoria Island I knew has turned
into a commercial city.

Every city plans for expansion and modernization but like most things
in Nigeria, Victoria Island did not betray an iota of planning. All I
could think about was, what would happen ten years from now when more
buildings come up? Away from the bustles of the street and inside any
of the offices or homes, you feel at rest but the second you emerge
into the streets, it is a complete nightmare. Traffic wardens are
running out of the way of siren blazing private cars, street vendors
have taking over what is left of the already congested and pot-holed
roads. Nigeria hard oh! I got home and just as I was about to watch
the news, NEPA struck. (The same NEPA!) Five minutes after, I did not
hear the generator start up. So I went to my kid sister who is
laughing her head out at this time.

"Tell them to put the gen now!"

"Gen ko, gen ne" she said laughing, "Do you want to attract Armed
Robbers?"

It was as if someone had put pepper in my eyes that night because I
did not sleep for a second.

Day Three:

My older brother was mad! He had not been able to get petrol the
previous day. "Go buy black market" he told one of his workers.

"How do you think this scarcity would ever end if you keep buying
from the black market?" I asked naively.

They all looked at me as if I was drunk.

"Are you still here?" He barked at his employee who was still hanging
around, ignoring my comment.

The young man jumped into the car and drove off.

My thoughts on how to solve Petrol Scarcity:

Subject Obasonjo and his entire cabinet to the rigor of queuing at a
petrol station for hours on end and I guarantee you, petrol will
become available in every petrol station in the country tomorrow.
Chikina!

Scarcity of petrol will persist until selling petrol to the end user
stops being a business. In one petrol station I visited, I watched as
the attendants collected 50 Naira from every driver that pulled into
the station. And they willingly gave as if thankful for the drop of
petrol they were getting. At the pump, the attendants calculated the
price of petrol based on the price the government did not stipulate,
and at the exit of the station, touts were stationed to charge an
exit fee. In that scenario, why would scarcity not persist?

I wonder what would happen if the citizenry simply refused to show up
at their places of work tomorrow because of the stress associated
with buying petrol. Will employers fire every body? Would they not
pressure the government to act right? Naïve thinking I know but isn't
it ironic that tomorrow these same people will start begging for
votes. Yet ordinary petrol they cannot guarantee, but to buy plane
they know how to beg for.

I met up with a friend today. Gosh, three years is a long time!

"Yankee man!" my friend exclaimed at the restaurant we were having
lunch.

"My brother, what's up now?" I said, genuinely happy to see my
friend.

"So what are you doing now?" I asked very interestingly, eager to
hear of his newfound ways of making money.

"My brother na business oh!" He said in finality, helping himself to
a spoonful of Shrimp red-sauce.

"Which kind business?" I asked drinking my fruit punch.

"Communication equipments, supplies, anything wey my people for Abuja
ask make I supply my brother."

"Who be your people?"

"Wetin be all this questions sef, I beg make we chop finish, ah ha!"

You see, in Nigeria my friend drives a Toyota Land Cruiser during the
week and at the weekend he runs his errands with his Mercedes 420
(The kind they call Bonny Face.) He has a modest home in Ikeja, all
paid for, another home in Abuja and a flat he keeps in the South-East
area of London. All these he has achieved at the age of twenty-nine.
Yet, the source of his wealth is the most guarded secrete of all.

After lunch we drove around Victoria Island and Ikoyi and memories
came flooding my mind. I remembered how we used to run on the rusty
sands at Bar-beach. Ikoyi Park has turned into Cement Park. We
visited the site of our first business venture together; making
bricks at the Marina. We shared a beer together and slowly the
afternoon fizzled into the night.

To avoid the traffic going towards the mainland we hung out at Ikoyi
Club. About 9.pm my friend's cell phone rang and after a few minutes
of conversing with the person on the other end, he noted that we had
to go back to Victoria Island.

Back in Victoria Island, the streets were lined up with ? women, you
know, women that worked at night ? (well some do during the day.) I
swear they must have been at least 60 girls working the streets on
Sanusi Fafunwa. At his friend's home we changed cars and got into a
badly beaten Peugeot 504 saloon car.

"What's wrong with the Cruiser?" I asked innocently.

His friend looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time.

"No mind am" my friend said, "he just came into town." He explained
of my ignorance.

"Henry" my friend continued, "to drive all these fancy cars in Lagos
na to invite trouble for yourself. For night I drive my Peugeot,
especially if I dey commot from Island. Oya make we go."

As we drove towards the mainland, two thoughts remained on my mind:

How would parents explain the presence of these night workers to
their children when they asked why they were beckoning on every car
that passed by? I saw this child soliciting one of the girls and the
fact that he was covering his face tells it all. And yet we wonder
why the spread of Aids would continue? Isn't the sight of these girls
decadent to the neighborhood that houses them?

The second thought that occupied my mind was the uncomfortable ride I
was in. I was grateful for the ride, but I could not phantom the
ownership of such wealth and not being able to enjoy it. My friend
had changed into an ankra Buba and Shokoto attire in place of his
expensive Armani suit. His Rolex was left at his friend's place and
as far as he was concerned ? there was no need taking chances.

Day Four:

I used to thing Jet Lag was over- hyped but by the 4th day of my
visit I was knocked out. So I spent the whole day at home. During the
day, I heard loud cranks coming from the air conditioner vent
occasionally and the maid, seeing the concern on my face, explained:
"Na low current" of-course I know! At 7.30pm my kid sister had not
come back from her bank job. At 10.30 I saw her strolling in,
fatigued.

"Working late?" I asked concerned.

"Petrol wahala" she said as she dragged herself to bed. She needed
to, she had to be at the office in another eight hours.

Day Five.

I went hunting around for the late Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe's book "My
Odessey." I did not find one single copy of the book anywhere.
Finally a friend's sister suggested I go to Yaba where, I did find a
photocopied version of the book. Surely I could not give that to a
friend who was looking forward to me bringing him a leather bound
book.

I saw two dead bodies lying by the roadside at the tail-end of the
Oworonshoki bridge today.

My Departure

The man was loitering around my luggage. But for his adorned British
Airways uniform, I would have sworn he was one of those touts you
were warned not to give money to, but were forever present.

"Your luggage is too heavy Oga" the woman announced with a smile on
her face. "Hurry up, go pay excess for upstairs, and remember, na
only thirty minutes to your flight oh. Abi you wan settle?" I acted
ignorant as my cousin negotiated the "excess Luggage" to "normal
luggage" in full view of her superiors.

Next was the customs!

"These are precious Nigerian Artifacts!" The very angry looking
custom woman barked at me. She was referring to four woodenheads,
which were in my luggage intended as gifts.

" But I bought them on the bridge," I said defensively.

"How I go know whether those area boys no thieve am for museum come
sell am to you for bridge? We have to send them to museum for
analysis and verification. Abi you wan settle? No forget, na only
twenty-five minutes to your flight oh." Again my cousin took over.

That settled, we took a deep breadth and just as we were about to
walk away, the man with a British Airways uniform approaches us:

"Oga na my turn oh, na we go carry your box go inside plane oh."

"Excuse me?" I said flabbergasted.

"Leave am there, no carry am" my cousin said fuming in anger as we
walked away.

I was dripping wet when I walked pass the immigration cheek point at
the departure lounge. As I walked towards the boarding gate to the
plane, tired and head downcast, I heard a very sincere sounding and
polite voice say:

"Oga, safe journey oh!"

I looked up and this nice looking lady was mopping the floor sounding
very sincere in her wishes. I looked away for a second wondering in
my mind if I had some Naira on me to at least, extend her thoughtful
way. Before my mind finished its search of my person, her voice
jolted me again, this time very harshly.

"Oga, na we dey here oh, make you see us something now!"

I shook my head and continued walking.

At the last counter before boarding, someone was announcing:

"Please go down and identify your baggage oh. We no go carry am if
you no identify am oh." Again, we descended a flight of stairs to
identify our luggage.

Back up and proceeding towards the plane, yet another group asks for
my passport. Scrutinizing my passport the lady said:

"Which state you come from?"

"The same state where you come from" I bolted out.

I couldn't for the life of me understand what prompts four cheek
points and still, all they all asked frivolous questions with no
bearing to the reason why they are there.

Sensing I was not in the mood for frivolous conversations, she gave
me back my passport and waved me along. Two steps further, the same
woman that told me I had "excess luggage" asked me to pass through
the metal detectors. She was now smiling and acting very helpful-
knowing fully well I was tired of airport officialdom.

Finally inside the womb of the plane! Too tired to even collect my
thoughts, the pilot welcomes us aboard, announcing all the details of
the flight ? like we really cared. But something he said was unique
which I had never heard in any other flight I had undertaken.

"We will now be spraying the plane according to international law,"
he said.

My mind went on a defensive immediately.

Spraying the plane with what, for what? I asked myself. I beckoned on
an air attendant.

"What are you going to spay and what does it contain?" I asked
inquisitively.

"Oh, its nothing to worry about sir, its just precaution," she said.

"Precaution against what?" I asked feeling insulted by her use of the
word - precaution.

"Sir, its nothing to worry about, its just something we do for the
safety of our passengers" she said.

"Do I look worried?" I said, and continued.

"I am a passenger and as I thank you for caring about my safety, I
say to you: Would you mind telling me what you would be spaying into
the air? After all, I will be subjected to breathing that substance
for the duration of this flight wouldn't I?"

She stared at me for a second and then said.

"Could you excuse me for a second?"

"Surely" I said.

She never came back and indeed tried to avoid me the whole flight. I
held my breadth as her colleagues began walking the length of the
entire cabin spraying chemicals. I was infuriated as if Nigerians
were carrying all sorts of diseases into the United Kingdom. Yet not
one malu in all of Agege had been reported to have a case of mad cow
or foot and mouth disease. It wasn't until later on during the flight
that the gentleman that was sitting opposite me explained the reason
for the spray.

"It's to neutralize the smell of all the Okporoko's and Ogiris that
we carry" he said with authority.

I slept off!

Well, I am back in my adopted home, for now. Missing Nigeria terribly
already. The only regret I have of my trip is that, I still have to
buy a spoonful of Egusi at the African store, for $5.00. If only
those American custom men understood the affixation of a Nigerian
with his Egusi and dried fish, they would have allowed me keep my
goods!!!

In Conclusion.

As complex as Nigeria is, the citizens are the least complicated. To
all public servants, especially those in top government positions, I
offer a piece of advice: The only way to have your name affixed in
the minds of people is to do well by them. Everywhere I went during
my visit all I heard were complaints about public utilities and
public servants. Some went further and even abused the families of
these public figures because or the hardships they are enduring. (And
tomorrow you will wonder where all your headaches are coming from.)
If only one person would stand up and take over one public
institution and bring it to her glorious resurrection, I guarantee
the person the seat of government come 2002. And a word of advise to
those that think London today, New York tomorrow is the way to run a
government, remember that commercial on TV a few years ago?

"And who looks after the children at home?"